


Limerence

by egzantirik



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Abstract, Angst, F/M, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Mild Gore, Other, Prostitution, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-02
Updated: 2018-04-02
Packaged: 2019-04-17 09:15:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14185740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/egzantirik/pseuds/egzantirik
Summary: You loved him and he called you foolish for it; maybe you were.





	Limerence

His eyes were the most beautiful shade of blue that your mortal self ever had the pleasure of seeing in the glory of shining moonlight, pale and weak in comparison to how proudly he carried himself with such absolution and finality— they were the iciest of blues, nothing could ever freeze you to your absolute core when they so much as cast a brief, belittling glance your way. And all the lords that resided in six heavens above, small did you feel; when those orbs flickered your way and the corner of his full, luscious lips curled ever so unceremoniously.

 

You had not known when you first met him; you should have and foolish you were for not having known better as he had called you before, very briefly but with certainty which made his words law itself, concrete facts he had so gloriously illuminated you with.

 

Of course he knew.

 

How could he not known with the way you looked at him each and every single time; as if he were a blessing of a being much greater than your small little self, as if he were the only one who existed in the vast arms of endless universe, as if he were the finest piece of art the mankind could ever witness— and you could, still would, swear that he was. He had always been for you; the vast center of your small world, laying at your very core.

 

And he did not even know your name.

 

He needed it not, he had said, as you were nothing but a mortal— an ant to the holiest of gods as he had put it; you were fleeting and insignificant and your loyalty to him was not questionable seeing as to how it did not exist for no more than an hour. He did not know the color you loved, nor would he listen if you told him tales about your upbringing and childhood, about your family and about how you ended up here— he would heed no mind, he would walk away. You had a duty, one he had paid you to fulfill properly and it was to make his night not memorable, but bearable. It was to lift the weight off his shoulders and let himself unwind, it was to quietly comply with his wishes as he succumbed to his weakness and embraced with great reluctance the undeniable humanity that remained lain deep within his soul, his core.

 

It was your fault, he had warned you the second your eyes had met his beautiful, blue ones colder than ice: you were nothing. You were no one, so was he. He would leave, you would remain in the streets, selling love to men willing and desperate enough. He was not, though, he was anything but.

 

He had warned you to be a wise woman, to walk away if you would so ridiculously crumble beneath his holy self with such confidence and pride that you almost laughed in his face and at the way he looked down his nose on you— it was nothing new, you were to be treated as less than an individual for lowering yourself so unceremoniously, they would always say, for falling so far below, Lord Sparda would condemn you if he knew you.

 

It was the first and last time you saw his lips twitch up in the smallest of smirks, the name having sounded funny on your tongue and even more so on his ears, you assumed nonchalantly, all the while captivated by the struggle of relentlessly yet in vain trying to comprehend the enigma of just how good one could look with a smile, a devious one at that; void of any real emotion other than shallow amusement. He never told you why and you never asked him to tell you tales you would only hope to hear.

 

You only writhed beneath him as he took you to his liking, as he relieved himself; you only closed your eyes and imagined a reality where the stranger whose name you did not even known yet to whom you had already given your heart, soul and body to loved you the same as you loved him, touched you not with cold cruelty but with sweet desperation that was threatening to consume him whole as it had you— you only closed your eyes to the truth, lulled yourself to sweet dreams where you were happy, where you had something to live for, where you had more to look forward to than the pennies left on the counter of a cold, lifeless hotel room. You only hoped to feel loved and cared for, not used and abused every single night you partook in the rigor.

 

You only hoped to feel him there for you, to run your nimble locks through his white locks framing the beautiful pale face that complimented them.

 

Foolishness. Such mortal foolishness was nothing short of ridiculous.

 

Then you found out what he left you, left with you; within you.

 

 

 

A child;

 

A child you would not be able to take care of with the kind of desperate life you were leading, with how incapable you were of holding on long enough to survive let alone taking care of a child— you were not educated, nor were you wealthy. You were unworthy, simply to be swept by the flowing wind sooner or later, to be disappeared into nothingness. You would bring a child into this world only to abandon it, bring it only to have its glory diminished by the lack of quality your life possessed. You did not have a place you could call home as each night was spent in the arms of someone else, mind far, far away. You did not have friends or relatives; only some people who helped you get by every now and then when the winter struck and rendered you incapable of doing much other than withering away with the cold on the ground.

 

You were a fool, truly, for in the coldness of the night, all by yourself in some alley known to no men other than slums like yourself and your kind, you cried and held on, you screamed silently and bit through your lips not to make a sound for fear that you would be discovered and condemned, for fear that they would take not your life but your unborn child’s, you pushed and pushed and pushed and pushed and prayed with everything you have, everything you would ever have and have ever had to let whatever holy power or being that existed to make your child come to life alive – gods, please be alive, please, please, please; I love you, I already love you more than I have ever loved anything – until you heard a cry, desperate in the cold night. Poor little thing. Lifeless, almost, so very thin he was for you had not been properly fed and taken care of during your times pregnant, for you had not been able to take care of yourself well enough to bear a child. Shivering in the cold and tainted by red, he was beautiful.  

 

Your heart swelled then, and you were finally able to get over your love for the nameless stranger you had sold your body to for nightly pleasures a few days— you finally fell out of love with him and tumbled straight into nothing but unconditional and pure love for your baby then: who had his white locks and his pale skin that was marred with the ugliest of reds, whose unopened eyes were as blue as his own, you had already known. He was the most beautiful thing you had seen then, with your arms wrapped around him and your body dying, ground red where you had him— unsanitary, dirty. He would need water and food, he would need love and care; you already knew he would have a hard time receiving the latter because of how bastard children were treated in this religious town that worshipped a demon. Outcasts, losers. But you knew it, you just knew that he would be different and that he would be special; not because he was your child but because he was _his_. You loved him, you loved him. You loved every single thing about him; both of them. Two of them, father and son, were people you had not known, nor would you know. You loved him still.

 

You loved him already.

 

So much, in your desperation, you wrapped the only thing you had around the bundle of life around your arms in an attempt to keep him alive for as long as you could: a black blanket. Only warm enough to keep him alive for long enough. Long enough, you had known. You had to make it, you had to.

 

Then you crawled and crawled with him hugged tight to your chest, with tears streaming down your cheeks as unrivalled pain dominated your body, took over you and consumed you whole; alive. Only long enough, you had only long enough to go. Your legs scraped the rocks and ground, bled along with between your legs. You left a trail of red behind your wake, pain not lost on you; but your frenzy to keep your child alive and unharmed overwhelming. Untouched, he was, untainted by all as the skin of your elbows scraped the ground and peeled, as rocks and dust dug into open wounds, as you hurt and cried.

 

At last, you were there; in front of ones you knew would take him in and care for him.

 

As he cried, you cried. One last kiss pressed to his temple, your eyes closed.

 

 

 

It was a disgrace; you had truly fallen way below. To die, a whore in front of the most loyal servants of Sparda. Yet deeper down would you descend into void until you met the gates of hell and heard the screeches of it being dragged open for you and no one but you. Somehow, you heard a name, and the familiarity of its scent was enough to drive you insane.

 

It was as if the nameless father of your kid was welcoming you home in hell.

 

**Author's Note:**

> After so long, I felt inspired to write for something. I don't know how good this turned out to be in the end since it has been a while, but I chose to experiment and be vague so most is left to reader's own interpretation. I've wanted to write for Vergil for so long, but depicting him is a very challenging task especially when one wants to romance him. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this piece and if you have, please let me know. Your feedback encourages me to do more. :D


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